In Defense of Korean Beer
A year or two back, celebrity chef and sailor-mouth extraordinaire Gordon Ramsay did a commercial for Cass beer, where, over a grill of sizzling samgyeopsal, he pronounced the pale brew “Bloody fresh!” The online reaction among the local expatosphere was swift and predictable, with incredulous foreigners sputtering forth barely contained outrage in comment after comment, blasting the British chef for sacrificing his supposed integrity in a short-sighted attempt to chase the semi-mighty won.
Accusations of “Sellout!” broke out across English-language Facebook pages dedicated to life here on the peninsula, as if this was the first time that Ramsay (worth some 200 million dollars) has parlayed his brand of whirlwind personality and meaty catcher’s mitt of a mug into stacks of cash. This is a guy with a host of top-rated TV shows and an empire of upscale restaurants and bars sprinkled across the globe. Ol’ Gordy has been cashing in since day one: Selling out, more than anything, is his modus operandi.
Still, Ramsay has managed to sock away such extraordinary sums based on the perception that he’s operating from a baseline of honesty. This idea that he’s some kind of straight shooter is something that he’s taken to the bank; it’s the key ingredient in his connection with his audience. Despite his obvious theatrics, we sense that this is a man driven by a passion and dedication to the truth that’s impossible to fake, which is why his Cass commercial made so many Westerners here lose their damned minds:
How could Gordon Ramsay, the ultimate detector and destroyer of bullshit, declare such undrinkable swill to be “bloody fresh?”
Foreigners in the Land of Morning Calm have long loved to hate on Korean beer. This was certainly the case when I washed up on these rocky shores in 2004, and since then it’s done nothing but intensify, especially with the advent of craft beer. Just today, while perusing replies to a woman looking for alcohol-free Korean beer on Facebook, I saw someone describe the national lagers as “piss in a bottle,” a reaction so typical and played out out that you can set your watch to it.
We hear this disdain for mass produced Korean beer repeated ad infinitum, but is it fair? Are the big Korean beers (Cass, Hite, O.B.) really that bad? Especially when compared to other lagers produced in East Asia? I really don’t think so, especially when served cold, and paired with certain Korean foods. In fact, I find the hatred piled upon Korean beer to often be overcooked, the result of a simmering contempt for most things Korean that tends to feed upon itself in certain corners of the internet where foreigners like to congregate and vent. If you were to re-brand Hite and sell it ice cold in, say, Thailand, I bet you’d have far fewer people bitching about its supposed unpalatability; have it represent Korea at large in a venue full of moaning expats, and you’ll see some serious venom spat its way.
Still, let’s not kid ourselves. While I’ll go out on a limb to defend Korean beer, I don’t claim that it’s the best stuff out there, even regionally. For that, every single kudo for mass produced lagers (which is what I’m talking about here) would have to go to Japan: Asahi, Sapporo, Kirin, Yebisu… they’re all superior to anything that Korea has to offer. The Japanese nail beer, especially light, crisp brews that still manage to deliver real flavor. In this sense, many Japanese lagers can go head to head against the best that Europe has to offer.
Okay, barring Japan, how does Korean beer hold up against the others in East Asia? I’d say pretty well, and it is here where I think the vitriol it often receives is largely undeserved. Look no further than China, whose most famous beer, Tsingtao, is right on par with Cass, as far as I’m concerned, though Tsingtao has that Heineken-y skunkiness that doesn’t necessarily serve it well. Also, the Tsingtao that you get in China doesn’t taste like the Tsingtao they export: it’s demonstrably worse. As is everything I have had in this country of 1.5 billion, where, outside of the westernized enclaves of the big cities, they often drink their beer warm. And China’s biggest-selling brew, by far, is Snow, which is easily the nastiest stuff I’ve choked down: it tastes like Cass that’s sat out for three days and then dribbled forth from a diseased rat’s dick.
Taiwan’s sensibly branded Taiwan Beer is about as watery a lager as it gets, though it does the trick in the press of heat and humidity that often grips that island nation. Still, I’d rate it a notch down from the Korean offerings. Same goes for 333 or Hanoi in Vietnam, which are drinkable, but nothing to celebrate and probably inferior to Korea’s beer.
This brings us to Thailand. Some claim that Singha is a nice beer, and while it goes down fine cold, it’s never rung my bell. Leo and Chang are both sub-par brews that will get you drunk but rate on the cat’s ass end of flavor. I quite like Cambodia’s Angkor, though I imagine a draft of Cass accomplishing the same after a day of scrambling up temples. Singapore’s Tiger is overrated swill, and Indonesia’s omnipresent Bintang is actually just this side of vile, but still served me well during a month in Sumatra
When it comes to SE Asia, I’ll really only give it up for two beers: San Miguel, which is a great hot-weather pilsner, and Beer Laos, which I consider the best mass-produced East Asian beer outside of Japan.
My point is, in the scheme of things, Korean beer just isn’t that bad, especially when served ice cold and drunk with grilled meat or raw fish. And while it’s always had its detractors, it’s the craft beer fuckos that have raise the shrillest of protest.
Now, I like beer of all sorts, and, when in the mood, I’ll sup a nice thick, full-bodied ale. I started drinking IPA’s and their ilk in Seattle back in the early-90’s, when that whole movement was just gaining its legs, regionally. Back then we called them “microbrews,” but over the past few years the name has changed.
As anyone who enjoys beer knows, Korea has finally seen an uptick in the choice of crafties, and I’ve patronized both Galmaegi and Gorilla here in Busan since they started pouring pints and have nothing but good words for the work they do.
But when it comes down to it, I’m a lager man. I like cold, crisp beer that goes down easy and isn’t a meal unto itself, and I have yet to have a craft beer “lager,” anywhere, that tastes as good as a Sapporo or Stella or Peroni on draft. They never quite get there.
In this I have little patience for the bearded masses of craft beer nerds who somehow insist that It’s not a “real” beer unless it’s a quad-hopped triple-rye raspberry chocolate IPA gangbang. And while I have time for a fat, nicely crafted ale, let me quote the much-missed Anthony Bourdain here:
“You want to know what kind of beer I like? I like cold beer.”
In this, Korean beer more than delivers. In fact, just last weekend I finished one of the toughest days of hiking in my life on the flanks of Jirisan, one of Korea’s most famous mountains. After a shower I staggered my creaking bones into the little restaurant attached to our minbak and ordered a Cass, straight away.
I was greeted by a glistening, frigid bottle, and when I poured that lager into the little glass, put it to my parched lips, and gulped it down, just two words coursed through my bleary mind:
Bloody fresh!
Because you know what? It was.
